k him very bad, sir?" she faltered.

"Oh, yes," was the cheerful reply; "he has about as splitting a headache
as a poor wretch could have."

"But he will not die, sir?"

"No, Mrs Bruff," said the doctor. "Not just yet; but you may tell him,
by-and-by, when you get him downstairs, feeling penitent and miserable,
that, if he does not leave off going to the Chequers, he'll have to
leave off coming to the Little Manor."

"Why, sir, you don't think that?" faltered the woman.

"No, I do not think, because I am quite sure, Mrs Bruff. He was not
hurt by your cookery, but by what he took afterward. You understand?"

"Oh, sir!"

"Come along, Vane. Good-morning, Mrs Bruff," said the doctor, loud
enough for his voice to be heard upstairs.

"I am only too glad to come and help when any one is ill; but I don't
like coming upon a fool's errand."

The doctor walked out into the road, looking very stern and leaving the
gardener's wife in tears, but he turned to Vane with a smile before they
had gone far.

"Then you don't think it was the fungi, uncle?" said the lad, eagerly.

"Yes, I do, boy, the produce of something connected with yeast fungi;
not your chanterelles."

Vane felt as if a load had been lifted off his conscience.

"Very tiresome, too," said the doctor, "for I wanted to have a chat with
Bruff to-day about that greenhouse flue. He says it is quite useless,
for the smoke and sulphur get out into the house and kill the plants.
Now then, sir, you are such a genius at inventing, why can't you
contrive the way to heat the greenhouse without causing me so much
expense in the way of fuel, eh? I mean the idea you talked about
before. I told Mr Syme it was to be done."

Vane was not ready with an answer to that question, and he set himself
to think it out, just as they encountered the gipsy vans again, and the
two lads driving the lame pony, at the sight of which the doctor
frowned, and muttered something about the police, while the lads
favoured Vane with a peculiar look.

CHAPTER NINE.

HOW TO HEAT THE GREENHOUSE.

"Vane, my boy, you are like my old friend Deering," said the doctor one
morning.

"Am I, uncle?" said the lad. "I'll have a good look at him if ever I
see him."

The doctor laughed.

"I mean he is one of those men who are always trying to invent something
fresh; he is a perfect boon to the patent agents."

Vane looked puzzled.

"You don't understand the allusion?"

"No, uncle,